


Ksanti

by sophiahelix



Category: Angel: the Series
Genre: Alternate Universe, Angel Book of Days Challenge, Angst, F/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2003-10-01
Updated: 2003-10-01
Packaged: 2017-10-19 12:56:57
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 8,684
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/201086
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/sophiahelix/pseuds/sophiahelix
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>A story about redemption. Maybe.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Ksanti

**Author's Note:**

  * For [Minim Calibre (minim_calibre)](https://archiveofourown.org/users/minim_calibre/gifts).



> AU, spinning off from "Sleep Tight." The title is pronounced "k'SHANti."

He remembers the night he thought Faith must be dead. Coming home late on the bus, a paper sack of groceries on the seat next to him and Stephen snuggled asleep on his lap, he caught sight, down a short, steamy alley, of a street fight. The bus sighed to a stop at a traffic light, and he looked past his own reflection in the smeared window, making out the figure of a girl, tall and wiry, aiming roundhouse punches and deft kicks at what was certainly a vampire. Her hair, long, black anddead straight, streamed from a high ponytail, and as she turned in the heat of the battle, a streetlamp caught her face. She was neither of the slayers he'd known.

The bus lurched forward, squealing, just as the vampire surprised the girl into a headlock. Wesley twisted backwards, craning to see, but the pair was too far down the alley. He went back the next day, looking up the fire escapes and down the neighboring streets, but there was nothing to show a fight, not even ashes.

It had to be Faith, then. Buffy's first death had brought up endless questions for those who studied slayer lore, but it seemed clear that the line ran through the girl called latest. If a new slayer had been chosen, Faith must be gone. He wondered how. A brawl in prison? Or had she been there for the destruction of Sunnydale last summer? There was no one to ask.

He found out, months later, about the others. He'd avoided making any sort of contact with the demon underworld, as the community was small and news traveled fast, but he overheard a conversation between three Schlokth demons behind the shop he bought his herbs from in Chinatown, and stopped to listen.

"One on every block, man," a small purple Schlokth whined. "Young ones, short ones, fat ones. That little blonde girl over there, man, you try to grab her, she break your arm instead. Too many stinking slayers."

"Where they all come from?" another Schlokth asked, scratching his shoulder horns against the brick wall. "Never used to be more than one."

"Beats me, man," the purple demon answered. "Some kinda magic mojo. Big hellmouth down south go poof, and all these slayers start coming outta the woodwork. Like, energy spreading, man. Like, you squeeze a cat, blood come outta both ends, right?"

"All I know is, ain't so easy to catch a meal no more," the third Schlokth growled. "Some slayers better than others, but it don't take more than one little girl to put a stake in one of your heads."

One of the heads in question turned towards Wesley, who was frankly eavesdropping from the shop's side door, and he fled from the hungry scrutiny of twelve eyes, nearly dropping his purchases as he went.

They'd called the potentials. He worked it out over the next few days while he was doing Stephen's never-ending laundry, or straightening up their short-term furnished apartment. Some powerful witch -- maybe Willow, maybe someone in the Council's employ -- had learned the source of the slayer's power, and given it to every girl who might have been called. He had to admire the brilliance of the idea. He had to appreciate the courage it must have taken.

And he had to marvel at the sheer audacious stupidity of entrusting every girl who had a spark of slayer potential with the full powers, regardless of age or aptitude, as if the age-old mechanism of selection hadn't been good enough. What desperate straits must they have been in? How had they gotten anything concrete out of centuries of vague legend and folktale myth? And what *had* they been thinking?

It was daring, noble, and idiotic. Wesley knew a lot about decisions like that.

*****

The night was warm when he took Connor. It was the close, muggy, smoggy heat of LA, the lingering embrace of a hundred thousand cars and air conditioning vents and aerosol cans of Aquanet, and he breathed it in with as much regretful nostalgia as he'd inhaled the air of the Suffolk Downs, his last night in England. Steam rose from the sewer vents, druggies beckoned and fought on street corners, and three different white, low-slung Hondas with blue undercarriage lights cut him off as he drove out of town, heading north on I-5.

It might have been smarter to head for the winding coast highway, which he knew Angel didn't know very well, and hide out somewhere along the way -- Carpinteria, Oxnard -- but the instinct of hunted prey drove him onto the interstate, a straight shot through the dry, flat heartland of California, where he could push ninety and lose himself amongst the big-rig trucks. When he coasted down the last of the Grapevine, a huge orange moon hanging over the nightmarish carnival of the Magic Mountain amusement park, it was like entering another world. One without fear, without prophecy. Without Angel.

His SUV carried him northwards with only one stop to fuel up, clumsily change Connor's diaper, and choke down some foul cinnamon-flavored coffee, and he was in Oakland well before the sun rose. He meant to keep driving north, aiming for the quiet, deep forests, but the terrible freeway and his exhaustion sent him west by mistake, and soon he was fishing for three bucks in change to pay for an unwanted trip over the Bay Bridge, into San Francisco. He drove around the city for a while, watching steam rise from the sewer vents, watching the druggies beckon and fight on street corners, and a white Beemer cut him off. He checked into a no-name motel.

Connor woke up when Wesley pulled him from the car seat, but he didn't cry. That performance he saved for the motel lobby, where the clerk was the most matronly-looking woman Wesley had ever seen, and gave him the dirtiest look he'd ever felt, one that clearly said, "No man can be trusted with an infant, least of all you."

He shifted the baby on his hip, sent a hard smile to the clerk, and said, "My wife just left me."

Her eyes said, "I can see why."

He hauled their meager luggage upstairs -- a couple of suitcases, the diaper bag and one precious briefcase full of papers, books, and the remains of an old life -- and realized he had no crib. It wasn't out of the realm of possibility that there was one to be rented from the desk, but it was four a.m. and he wasn't facing the bloody night clerk again. He emptied everything out of one hard-sided, ancient Samsonite suitcase, stuffed it with the extra pillow and his least favorite shirt, and used his jacket as a blanket to tuck Connor into the makeshift bed.

Connor continued to howl.

Wesley dug the bottle and the canister of formula out of the diaper bag, only to find that the room was missing its promised microwave. He shook up the formula with water from the bathroom and reluctantly went downstairs, shutting the door to drown out Connor's cries. The clerk was, somewhat menacingly, reading a bodybuilding magazine, and didn't bother to look up.

Popping the bottle into the microwave, he squinted at the numbers and made a guess. Two minutes later he took it back out, and was headed back up the stairs when the clerk spoke.

"'Sposed to test it on your arm, Percy."

He smacked his forehead internally, and gingerly shook a few drops onto the inside of his wrist. The scalding hot liquid felt like burning oil, and he winced and flailed his hand wildly, cursing himself for doing so.

"Er, thanks," he managed.

As he walked up the two flights of cement stairs he unscrewed the lid, trying to blow into the bottle to cool it off. Furious infant cries grew louder as he approached, and he hurried up the last few stairs, fishing in his pockets for the key card. Fished some more as he reached the door. Turned all his pockets inside out, shook his pant legs, and remembered the card perfectly, sitting on top of the scuffed dresser. The cries intensified.

Wesley set the bottle down in the front of the door. The clerk was still reading when he got downstairs, and for a wild second he wanted to ask how much she benched. He cleared his throat.

"Er," he said. She didn't look up.

"Er," he said again. "Ilockedmyselfout."

"Hm?" she asked, still reading.

"I hate you," he said, inside his head.

"I, er, forgot my card," he said out loud. "In my room. Can you -- "

Without a word she reached beneath the desk and brought out a bright red key card, which she slid under the glass partition.

"Bring this down in five minutes or we triple the bill," she said, paging through her magazine.

He took the keycard, glaring at the top of her head.

All was eerily silent as he stepped into his hall, and he was sprinting by the time he got to his door. A hundred terrible possibilities swarmed his brain; what if, what if...

His nervous fingers slid the card the wrong way three times before he figured it out, and four times more before he was able to jerk the door open and dash round the bed to see Connor fast asleep, sucking two fingers on his left hand and frowning. Wesley dropped to his knees, feeling entirely theatrical and entirely relieved, and realized from his wet pant leg that he had kicked the bottle over. He glanced back to where it lay in the doorframe, leaking all over the coarse, flattened maroon carpet, then back to the sleeping baby.

Lord. He was responsible for a baby.

As silently as possible he leaned forward until he was lying alongside the suitcase, propped up on one elbow and staring, just staring. Tonight, and all the nights in the foreseeable future, it was just him and the improbable, fragile offspring of two vampires. Him and Connor -- this boy who must become, to all outward appearances, his son.

He couldn't continue calling him Connor, of course; they would both have to take new names. He tried to think of something normal, unremarkable, and the image of another baby came to him. A wrinkled, pale, unmoving infant, the one who was to have been his brother, they told him. Born too small, and too soon. The name on the tiny, white gravestone they erected over his tiny, white body read *Stephen*.

Wesley stared until he fell asleep on the floor, dozing through the morning sun while Stephen woke again, hungry. The motel tripled the bill. He started looking for a place to rent that afternoon.

*****

She's come into his life before with knives, with anger, with mocking laughter. This time it's with nothing at all, only a frown of almost-recognition as they bump into each other in the most slapstick of ways, coming opposite directions through the door of their lobby. He knows who she is right off, even with the years and the lack of makeup, and there is a fragile instant in which he could walk away, let it go, stay safe. All it would take is the invisibility he's become so good at, to drop his head and become just another figure in the crowd to her. It would be so easy.

"Faith," he says, catching at her bare arm, wondering what on earth he's doing. She squints at him over her shoulder.

"Uh..." she says, thoughts clearly chasing each other through her eyes. Then her mouth drops.

"Jesus, *Wes*," she gasps, turning around on the sidewalk. "I didn't even fucking recognize you, what with the beard and all." She gestures at him, looking up and down, and for the first time in years he feels as though he were wearing a costume, a silly dress-up outfit that only fools strangers. He's never imagined meeting someone from his past and having them notice that he's grown out his hair. He's worried more that the people from his past would want to kill him.

"Oh -- yes," he mumbles, startled back into his old accent, the speech patterns foreign and awkward after four years. "I know it's a bit -- different."

"Yeah, I'd say," she says, widening her eyes. "But the beard is, you know, good different. Not like, Unabomber different. And the clothes -- nice. Less with the stuffy, more with the...good."

He looks away, acutely aware that he's built muscles from housework and childcare, gained a few lines in his face from the same, and is also dressed in jeans and a tee shirt like a college student.

"And you..." he says. "You look..."

Faith is wearing her usual minimum of thin, stretchy things, a red tank top and black jeans and clunky boots, her dark hair restrained in dozens of thin, slick braids. The years have not diminished her figure.

"Exactly the same," she laughs. "Prison ain't big on the extreme makeovers."

"Prison," he says slowly. "How long -- "

"'Bout three weeks ago," she answers. "Idiots paroled me. Can you believe that? Thought I was fit to inflict on society again."

She grins at him, a crazy wicked look that sets a little thrill of fear thrumming through him, full of memories. He's lived in constant worry for five years, but this is the real thing, the real animal terror. Just a little.

"So," he says, to cover it up. "What you been doing since then? Been anywhere...interesting?"

"Well, not back to Sunnydale, if that's what you mean," she says. "Wasn't really expecting a welcome home party there."

"LA?" he presses, needing to know exactly how foolish he's been.

"Nah, not yet," she answers. "Kind of been a while since I saw the big guy. Not sure I'm up to the big hugs and kisses reunion, return of the prodigal slayer, all that shit. Plus I think Cordy still hates my guts."

He nods, and she fixes him with a strange look, then seems to hesitate.

"Also," she says, her voice tensing. "Well, I was kind of expecting *you* were still there. And...you know."

"Yeah," he mutters, looking away again.

"Well, this is awkward," she says after a moment. "Playing catch-up with ex-prison girl probably wasn't real high on your list of priorities today."

"It's, er, unexpected," he admits. "You're living here now?"

"Yup," she answers. "This short-term studio shit is kind of divorcee central, but the rents in this town are scarier than anything I ever ran into down south."

"Hah," he says.

"Listen, you wanna come up and have a drink?" she asks suddenly. "Coffee or something? Hostess cupcake?"

"Um..." he hesitates. "I've got to meet somebody. An appointment. Rather important."

"Right," she says, looking away. "Okay. Sorry -- I guess I understand. We're not really on hanging-out terms, are we?"

They're not. But he's going to have to move anyhow, now that he's been seen, and he didn't know how absolutely starved he was for companionship until this very moment. Even the companionship of a woman whose very presence unnerves him.

"Faith," he says, looking straight at her. "It's in the past. We've...well, we've both changed." It doesn't quite feel like a lie.

She studies him for a few seconds, then nods, biting the tip of her tongue between her front teeth.

"Gotcha," she says, flicking a handful of braids over her shoulder. "Not doing the whole past thing would be fucking great."

"All right then," he says, breaking into a hesitant smile. Nothing feels all right.

"Look, if you want, gimme your unit number and I'll drop by tonight," she tells him. "*And* I'll bring takeout, if you can provide the forks."

The fragile instant returns, the one in which he has the power to change everything. Give the wrong number, tell her no, leave town tonight. It would be so easy.

He tells her the number.

"See ya around seven, beard man," she says, and leaves with a smile, a tongue click, and a pointing finger, walking backwards down the street. It's so corny, and so perfectly Faith, that he can't keep from smiling back.

Years of fear and danger, he thinks, and it's taken only loneliness and a familiar face to bring him down.

*****

Stephen is wrapped in a black blanket when he gets to Maureen's, chasing around two smaller, shrieking children with his arms outstretched.

"I am the vampiiire!" he bellows, the pinned-on blanket billowing behind him. "I vant to suuuuck your blood!"

The two blonde sisters squeal and climb onto the wooden play structure in the middle of the room, clinging like monkeys. Stephen grasps the denim-clad leg of the older girl and sinks his baby teeth into the material, growling. She shrieks and kicks him, and Maureen hurries into the living room as Wesley follows her down the hall.

"No, no, Stevie," she tells him, pulling him off the now-crying girl by the back of his sweater. "I told you, no biting!"

"He bit me, he bit me!" the girl chants hysterically, sliding off the play structure and clinging to Maureen's waist. Maureen crouches down to put an arm around her, and frowns at Stephen.

"Maureen, I *had* to bite her," Stephen protests, hands on his hips. "We were playing vampire, and vampires have to bite people so they can suck their blood."

"Who told you that?" Wesley asks from the doorway, slipping back into his flat, everyday accent.

"Daddy!" Stephen cries, running over to clamber up. Wesley picks the child up and hoists him on his hip, small arms winding around his neck.

Maureen straightens up, brushing flyway grey hairs out of her eyes.

"Mr. Jones, I just don't know what's going on with him today," she sighs. "With Halloween coming up, he's been crazy about playing vampires. I just don't know where he's getting it from -- unless you let him watch horror movies at home?"

Her disapproval is unmistakable, and Wesley shakes his head.

"I'm afraid I can't say either -- we don't even have cable," he tells her. "Stephen, who told you about vampires?"

"Zachary" is mumbled into his neck, and the adults roll their eyes.

"That explains it," she says, folding her arms. "That child is a holy terror. It always makes me so nervous when an older child only plays with younger ones -- usually they just want to bully the little ones to make themselves feel important."

"Mm," Wesley says, bending down and shaking Stephen off his neck. "Stephen, go get your coat and your lunch bag, please."

"I try not to let him mingle with my children here," she continues, as Stephen darts towards the small wooden cubbies in the kitchen. "But when we're at the park, it's hard to keep them all separated. And his mother doesn't seem to care where he is or what he does, at all hours of the day or night."

"Well, I'm sure he can't do any lasting harm," Wesley answers. "He's only a child. I just wish he wouldn't try to frighten Stephen with his horror stories -- it doesn't work, and it only gives Stephen ideas."

Maureen smiles. "Honestly, I don't think he would been so taken with the idea of vampires if he hadn't lost only those two teeth. Most children lose the bottom ones first, not the top ones. With that gap, it *does* look like he has fangs."

"Mm," Wesley says again, a cold thrill of fear taking him for the second time that day. "Stephen, are you ready?"

"Yes!" Stephen shouts from the kitchen. "But come see my dinosaur first!"

"It's not helping his speech, either," Maureen says as they walk to the other room. "He's still speaking too fast. Have you talked to the therapist I gave you the number for?"

"Not yet," Wesley answers, crouching down to peer into Stephen's cubby.

"Well, I know many parents just hope their children will grow out of speech problems," she says, "but you never know. And when he starts school next year, you don't want him to have that kind of social handicap."

"I've been busy with my work," Wesley tells her. "Stephen, that's a wonderful dinosaur. Do you know what kind it is?"

"An apatosaurus," Stephen answers.

"Good job. Do you remember what an apatosaurus eats?"

"Um," Stephen stops to think, eyes screwed up. "Plants?"

"That's right, plants. Do you think the apatosaurus *bites* other dinosaurs?"

"Um...no. But the try-ranosaurus does."

"But the apatosaurus is bigger than the tyrannosaurus, right?"

"Yeah."

"So do you think you have to bite to be the best?"

"Um...no."

"Okay."

"But vampires have to bite people!"

"Vampires aren't real, Stephen," Wesley says, lying easily for the thousandth time in Stephen's life.

"But Zachary says -- "

"Zachary is wrong. Vampires are only in movies, like monsters."

Stephen looks down and scuffs the linoleum with a sneakered foot. "Okay."

"All right." Wesley stands up, taking the child's hand. "Do you want to leave your dinosaur here to dry overnight?"

"You'd better, Mr. Jones," Maureen interjects. "We're going to put all the sculptures in the kiln tomorrow."

"In the big oven?" Stephen asks.

"Yes, and then you can paint your dinosaur," Maureen answers, smiling.

"I want purple and blue on mine."

"That's fine," Wesley says, ushering him out with a hand on his back. "You can decide tomorrow."

"And red, and green, and white, and red..."

"Mr. Jones, really, think about the speech therapist," Maureen says. "She's very good, and she has a sliding payment scale, if that's a problem.

"Thank you. Again," Wesley says stiffly. "I'll look into it."

"Bye bye, Laurie!" Stephen shouts, hopping around the room. "Bye bye Allison!"

"Why don't you tell Allison you're sorry you bit her?" Maureen suggests gently.

"SORRY ALLISON!" he shouts.

She glares at him from the couch. Stephen raises his arms menacingly and growls.

"O-kay," Wesley says, reaching for the blanket still pinned around Stephen's shoulders. "Let's get this thing off you and go home. It's bath night."

He scoops the child up, hands the blanket to Maureen, and smiles.

"See you tomorrow around nine," he tells her. "I think I'll be working rather late, so I may not pick him up until after seven, if that's all right."

"Sure," she says. "Laurie and Allison are actually staying here until Tuesday, since their parents are in Carmel, so he'll have company."

Wesley frowns for a moment, thinking.

"Would it be all right, then, if Stephen stayed as well?" he asks hesitantly. "Possibly even -- tonight? I have a rather large, er, project that I'm hoping to put in a lot of work on, and it would help if I could have complete quiet."

"Sure," Maureen says slowly. "I don't see why not. Has he slept away from home before, though?"

"No," he answers. "But I'll come down to check on him, and put him to bed. Let me just fetch a few things he'll need from the apartment."

He puts Stephen down, then crouches to eye level.

"Stephen, you're going to stay here for tonight, with Allison and Laurie. Won't that be fun?"

The child looks at him with confusion.

"Do I have to sleep here?"

"Yes, on the nap-time cots, with Allison and Laurie. It'll be an adventure. And I'll be here to tuck you and say goodnight."

"How come?"

"Because I have a lot of work to do tonight, boring work, and I can't play with you and give you your bath. I want you to stay here and have fun with Maureen and the girls."

"Okay..." Stephen says, sounding scared and uncertain, and a stab of guilt goes through Wesley.

"Stephen, I promise, if you're not okay, you can come right home. I just need to have some Daddy time to get all this boring work finished. And lucky you -- *you* get to stay here and play games and watch TV, and all Daddy gets to do is type on the computer. Can I trade places?"

Stephen smiles.

"No!" he shouts.

"But *I* want to wear your Superman pajamas, and get to play blocks with Allison and Laurie," Wes teases.

"No!" Stephen shouts again. "*My* pajamas!"

"Okay," Wesley says. "Let me go get them, so I can put them on."

"No! I get to wear them!" Stephen pouts.

"All right, *you* can wear them then, you lucky duck," Wesley promises, standing up. "I'll be right back," he tells Maureen.

In the apartment, he rummages through the dresser, finding the red and blue pajamas, Stephen's favorite pair of tiny Underoos, and other items of clothing in the messy drawers. He picks up the ratty velour Pooh bear Stephen sleeps with, all the black rubbed off his nose and the white stitches showing through, and a couple of picture books, and sticks everything in the old, battered diaper bag. He looks around the one room, gauging how much cleanup he'll have to do to erase every sign of a child's presence, and heads back down the hall to the elevator, wondering, again, what on earth he's doing.

*****

He hears her clomping down the hall at 7:46, and her knock is as sharp and impatient as he expects. When he opens the door she's there laughing on the doorstep, with a plastic bag full of steamy red and white cardboard boxes. It's a shock again, seeing her here in his small, artificial world.

"Hungry?" she asks. "Probably got cold on the bus, but we can nuke these suckers, no problem."

"Starving," he answers, a note of uncertainty in his voice that doesn't get by her.

"Hey," she says, the laughter gone. "Are you sure this is cool? Me, you, hanging out? I mean, I haven't even asked you what you're doing up here in fog city all by your lonesome, so I'm not really counting on a heart to heart, but if this is freaking you out, I can bail. Take my chow mein with me, but still bail."

He shakes his head.

"No," he answers, trying to make the words real by saying them. "It's all right. Truly, Faith."

He realizes, on her quizzical look, that she doesn't *want* it to be all right -- she wants him to be nervous and fearful and angry with her. She's still looking for the punishment she couldn't get from Angel. Well, she won't get it from him either, he thinks. He's the last person on earth to be judging others.

"Well, okay," she says at last. "If you're cool, I'm cool."

They busy themselves with reheating the warm, moist cartons in the microwave, then loading two plates with food. Wesley digs out a two pairs of chopsticks from the back of the drawer, but puts them away again at Faith's dismissive laughter.

"My fingers don't know how to work two little sticks," she tells him.

"What *do* your fingers know how to work, then?" he asks.

She stares at him for a moment, then breaks into laughter again.

"Forks, you pervert," she says. "Since when you have had a gutter mind?"

"It was just a simple question," he answers, but he's smiling too.

They settle down together on the green futon, the only piece of furniture he bought for himself when he first moved in, refusing to sleep on someone else's old mattress. The thirteen channels he gets on the aerial don't offer much in the way of entertainment, but they're occupied with the task of keeping the slippery food on their plates or in their mouths, and the meager offerings of the major networks are entertaining enough.

And besides, he thinks, he doesn't know how to *do* this anymore. Sitting in comfortable silence with another adult, sharing food and a couch, watching television -- this is what normal people do. This isn't his life.

"We should have beer," she says eventually, bits of fried rice stuck to her lower lip. "Three weeks out of the slammer and I still can't get enough beer."

"I'll see what I have," he answers, chastising himself for not offering it earlier. Alcohol will make everything better.

Good stout ales and hoppy microbrews have been one of the few luxuries he's allowed himself on his earnings from freelance writing, and six Anchor Steams beam their pleasant, brown invitations from the lowest shelf of the refrigerator. He grabs the first two, flipping off their caps on the edge of the counter, and hands one to Faith, who grins.

"Fancy-ass brewery shit, huh?" she asks, looking down at the label. "Knew you couldn't have changed that much, Wes -- there'd never be a Budweiser beer in *your* fridge."

"If you can call that beer," he returns.

"Well, forgive me for chugging this like the cheap stuff, but I guess my tastes just ain't as discerning as yours," she says, right before she drinks half the bottle without a breath.

She looks up when she finishes, a challenge in her eyes, a grin on her face, and he sighs and chugs most of his bottle too.

"Hope for you yet," she says, as he wipes his mouth, gasping.

The rest of the beers disappear with alarming speed, and soon he's getting drunk the way he always gets with beer, feeling sleepy and stupid. That's fine on any other night -- that's what the beer is there *for* -- but tonight it's just foolishness. Tonight he needs to be awake and alert, waiting...for what?

Waiting, perhaps, to see what she's going to do next. Despite all his impulses, despite the fact that he's allowed her to be here, this is his home and he feels open, vulnerable. She is still dangerous, he thinks, clear on this one thing while his mind goes fuzzy.

Clear on two things, he thinks, realizing that it's past time to tuck Stephen in, down the hall. He gets up in a hurry, trying to think of an explanation.

"Faith, I have to -- do something," he tells her. "My, er, laundry is done. I'll be back in a few minutes."

"Need help folding?" she asks, without looking away from the TV.

"Nah," he answers.

He walks down to Maureen's like something hunted, glancing over his shoulder to make sure Faith hasn't followed. Stephen is very nearly asleep when he arrives.

He's halfway through their usual story when someone knocks on the front door, and it's with sick, knowing dread that he hears Faith's voice drift down the hallway. Maureen comes back a moment later, looking puzzled.

"Mr. Jones, your, uh, friend is here. I think. She says your first name is Wesley? And you're -- English?"

He's leaving tomorrow, he tells himself grimly. Might as well make the muddle a little muddier before he goes.

"Wesley is my middle name," he tells her, hedging his bets and sticking with the American accent. "Some of my friends still call me that, since I didn't care for Adam when I was younger."

She nods, but the puzzled frown doesn't go away. He remembers how Faith looks tonight, and realizes why, just as Faith herself appears in the doorway behind Maureen.

"Hey, Wes, I thought -- well, hey there," she says, changing her attention mid-sentence to Connor, cuddled into a nap cot and still clutching his picture book.

"Who's -- who's this?" she asks Wesley, and now two puzzled frowns face him.

He's always been grateful for Stephen's complete lack of resemblance to his father, but never more so than at this moment. He doesn't even allow himself the steadying breath he craves, but launches right in. "Faith, this is my son. Stephen, this is Daddy's friend, Faith." The accent wavers, and he hurries on, trying to get out of the situation.

"Stephen, I'm going to have to say goodnight to you now, okay?" He kisses the little boy before he can protest, and stands up. "If you need me later, tell Maureen and she'll come get me."

He smiles at the two women, and brushes past them to the hall.

"Thanks again, Maureen," he tells her. "If there's any problems, don't hesitate to call."

He leaves the apartment, Faith following, and takes that needed deep breath.

"O...kay," she says as the door shuts. "Cute bundle of laundry you got there."

"Faith," he says to the ceiling. "I'd rather not discuss Stephen. It's a long...*long* story."

He turns in time to catch her shrug.

"Sure," she says. "I know we're not exactly on buddy-buddy terms here. Just never figured you for the Daddy type."

"Things change," he mutters.

"Look, do you want me to leave?" she asks. "This night just keeps getting weirder, and I kind of feel like I'm intruding on your private little world here. I don't want to fuck things up for you."

Too damn late, he thinks. No -- that's not right. He's fucked everything up all on his own, with one moment of wild impulse. Years of being careful, safe, cutting off the rest of the world, and he's thrown it away for a little human contact. To be Wesley Wyndham-Price again.

"No," he sighs. Leaving tomorrow. God knows where. "Let's go on back. I think I've got some decent scotch somewhere in the apartment."

*****

It's been a long, long time since he's woken up in the boozy dark with a girl's head in his lap. Strike that -- he's not sure this has ever happened to him before.

Scotch, late-night television, a futon, and Faith? What was he thinking?

Now is the time to go, he thinks, his muscles tensing like a prey animal. Get up as quietly as possible, take whatever money he has, fetch Stephen and go east, north, any direction but here. He's made their home in this city, but it's no longer *safe*. Or theirs.

He looks down at Faith. Asleep, she looks like any young woman; not a slayer, not a murderer, not a...torturer. Certainly not a recent convict. Just quiet, peaceful, eye makeup smudged and her tiny braids spilling everywhere.

And yet as he looks longer, the bone-deep fear grows again. It isn't just the worry he's lived with for long, of being found and recognized, but the fear he felt that dreadful night, the last time they were alone. In the dry-mouthed dark the unreasonable terror builds, his clenched muscles shaking and his breath coming in shallow pants. Every scar she gave him begins to hurt as though the wounds were fresh.

Her head in his lap seems, in a flash, like that of a Medusa, her face pale white and her braids like snakes. The prey instinct comes upon him again -- run, *run* -- but he's frozen to the futon, terrified that the slightest movement will wake her, and then...*then*...

She opens her eyes, turns her head, and looks up.

He sucks in a noisy breath, recoiling from her gaze against the futon.

"Wes?" she asks, her voice raspy.

"Yeah?" he manages, his breath rapid.

"What -- what time is it?"

"I'm not sure. Late. Or -- early."

She frowns, closing her eyes, and stretches and yawns.

"Should go," she mutters into his knee, her breath hot through the fabric of his jeans.

"All right," he says, the terror clenching tight again.

She sits up, stretching again, and swings her legs onto the floor. For a few seconds she stays still, her head hanging down, and then she throws herself backwards, arching her neck against the back of the futon. She turns her head to look at him with her sleepy cat eyes.

The fear sings in him, his breath trapped in his chest like his heart is, and the paralysis disappears. He has to do *something*, *now*, has to run or hit her or --

He leans forward, *rushes* forward, and kisses her hard, twisting one hand into her hair. She's passive for a moment, then comes right back at him.

Like this, in motion, in conflict, the fear begins to churn itself away. Their tongues and hands push at each other, and their bodies fight to lean one way or the other. His heavier weight and more desperate need wins out, and she falls flat on her back, he scrambling forward to keep a hold on her. She bucks beneath him, rubbing against everything she can touch, and he begins to tear at her clothes, bite at her neck.

He wants...everything from her. Wants to make her feel the terror he's felt, want to slice her skin with glass and words. Wants at the same, perverse time, to take warmth and pleasure and happiness from her, all the human gifts he's given up. She's so many different things, so many kinds of black and white that his head spins and all he sees is gray.

And she is unquestioning, uncaring. Short, terrible words float through his head -- cheap, easy, *slut* -- before he stops trying to put a name to her. She is just who she is, the most goddamn scary woman he's ever met, and if this is what it takes to erase four years of fear, he's going to fuck her through the floor.

The most important parts are naked now, and he lets her roll them over so she can straddle him, briefly ceding control. She slides right onto him, and the unfamiliar touch of another person makes him gasp. Then she starts to move.

Faith in motion is a beautiful, terrible thing, and he can't help wonder how she's been using that lithe body of hers in prison all these years. She seems perfectly in practice, and perfectly confident. He wants to wipe the little smile from her face, because this is *his*, damn it, his fuck and his reward, and he works his hands down between them, fingers searching and his hips thrusting up.

"*Christ*, Wes," she moans. "Where did...fuck it. I don't wanna know. Just do that again."

Her voice, with such abandon, breaks the tether of his restraint, and he rises up, ignoring her demand, and flips them onto the floor. She bounces once, hitting her head with a surprised cry, and then he's in her again, pants and boxers tangled in a stupid mess around his ankles while he pins her hands above her head.

He hadn't known he could fuck anyone this hard, or that anyone could take it like this. She chants a litany of blasphemies beneath him, keeping to his rhythm with matching slams of her limber hips. He's never, he thinks, he's never felt, he's never been this...

The orgasm skirting the edges of his consciousness is abruptly cut off as she flips him with no effort, slayer-strong muscles in her arms and legs tensing to push him over on his back, the blue shag carpeting scratching a burn down his skin.

"You weren't going to forget me, were you?" she asks, barely out of breath as she mounts him again. He pants, still stunned by the near-miss with ecstasy, as she rides him slowly, rubbing against him in the places she likes best. He's tensing to roll her over again, his hands at her hips, when her face changes. The smug, blissed-out smile changes to a preoccupied frown, her swollen lips falling open as her breath quickens and her eyes close. Under his hands, her hips thrust and swivel, grinding down on him in a way that makes his vision bloom red again.

He holds his breath, watching her pale face darken as she gets closer, tiny moans and pants escaping that lush, wet mouth. The world is just this -- watching Faith get ready to come -- and he waits, concentrating.

As her muscles clench tighter and her moans become gasps, he manages to sit up and roll to the side, pinning her back against the futon as he rises to his knees. Her eyes fly open, but she has enough presence of mind to wrap her arms around his shoulders and her legs around his waist, while he lifts her, hands beneath her ass.

And he waits, again. He holds her there, suspended, with just the barest thrusts to keep her on the edge. Her eyes widen, and he sees the frustration come across her face as he makes occasional small movements, never enough. The seconds tick by, and then the minutes, she trying to grind against him and he eluding her, and she finally begins to fight back.

She claws at his shoulders, arches back, away from him, but he's in to the hilt and still moving, just enough. Her feet hit the floor and she tries to stand up, but he bears forward with all his weight, pinning her lower back to the futon behind her while his fingers dig into her ass. She presses down on his shoulders, digging the heels of her hands into the tender muscles running to his neck, and her breath quickens to gasps, then to whimpering groans as he keeps rubbing into her, licking just beneath her earlobe.

"God, please, *please*, Jesus," she says in a sobbing whisper. "Wes, *don't*..."

He pulls back to look at her, all the fear-turned-fury in his eyes, and he sees, for one second, that she gets it. She knows.

There's just enough time for him to whisper, "Ready?" before he's fucking her again, banging the wooden frame hard against the wall as she comes and comes, biting his shoulder as she screams, until it's too much and he explodes inside her.

Lying down is really too much effort. He collapses forward, letting her slip down until her face is buried against him. A few panting seconds later, he feels her warm, wet tongue licking at him, tickling his balls, and the sensation is so irritating that he finds the strength to roll away, climbing onto the futon with a weary groan. She stays where she is, head flung back on the cushion.

He thinks he feels better.

"Bed?" she asks, after several minutes have gone by.

He groans again, then gets off the futon to pull the frame forward. She finds the blankets underneath, and tosses him a pillow. He has just enough strength to put his glasses on the fake bamboo end table before he's dead asleep.

*****

Gray, early morning light streams in when he wakes up again to the sound of the television, left on from the previous evening. He glances over to Faith's half of the bed, where she is lying on her back, neck propped up against the pillow as she watches a diet pill infomercial.

"Wes?" she asks, still staring at the television and sounding as sleepy as he feels. "You're not really okay, are you? I mean, you're still pissed at me."

"I'm not," he tells her.

"Bullshit," she answers, her voice flat. "You're furious with me. What you did last night...I saw it in your face."

"It's all right," he says, trying to stop the conversation, because he's only all right as long as they don't talk about it.

"It shouldn't be," she answers. "I mean...*shit*, Wes, I really fucked up. I really really fucked up."

"I know," he murmurs.

She turns to look at him, and he's unnerved to see tears in her eyes.

"Then why is it all right with you? It can't be. I *saw* it last night."

He sighs.

"Faith, please...I don't really want to talk about it. I don't. Can we just say that I've come to...value forgiveness more, and leave it at that?"

"So you're forgiving me just because you think you should?" she challenges, sitting up. "That's bullshit. It doesn't work that way. You have to still feel scared or pissed or *something*. You can't just be over it, like that."

"Well, what does it matter?" he asks, becoming roused. "All right, suppose I'm still angry with you. Suppose being near you frightens me, deeply, and it frightens me even more that I can't control the fear. But if *I* decide to forgive you, nothing can change that. It's like...grace. You can't undo it."

As he says the words, he knows they're true. It isn't just the fucking; somehow his life as an exile, as a man who's done everything wrong for all the right reasons, has changed everything. He extends grace to her in the hope that, somehow, it can be granted to him.

"Why not?" she insists. "Don't I get a say in this?"

"No," he answers, his voice quiet. "Because it doesn't have anything to do with you. You're forgiven whether you want it or not."

Her tears spill over then, and she wipes at them fiercely, taking some of her eyeliner as well. Her breath hitches, and he can tell how very much she doesn't want to cry in front of him.

"I'm gonna go," she says, sniffing. "I'm gonna -- I'm gonna go."

"You don't have to," he says softly.

"The hell I don't. I don't need this."

"Forgiveness?"

"*Any* of this bullshit!" she explodes. "You're the one who up here for whatever reason, with -- with a *kid*, who's probably not even *yours*, but do I even ask you what the hell is going on? No, all I do is try to get you to admit you're still pissed at me, and I get the fucking self-righteous act! I don't *need* this!"

"Faith," he asks. "Why do you want me to be angry with you?"

She stares at him for a few moments, then falls back on the futon, closing her eyes. He doesn't touch her.

"God," she says at last. "It seems like there should be answer to that, doesn't it?"

*****

It doesn't feel like much later when he wakes up again, pulled out of his sleep by something he can't put his finger on. He's lying on his stomach, face smashed against the pillow, and he turns his head to look away from the window, into the room.

Faith is putting her boots back on, though he doesn't quite remember her taking them off. Without his glasses, the world is a soft-focus blur, but he sees something orange and fuzzy sticking out of the pocket of her leather jacket, lying on the kitchen table. He squints at it for a moment as Faith laces up her first boot, and realizes what it is.

Stephen's toothbrush.

He can't see the Spongebob decals, but he knows, just from the tiny size. In the mad rush of last night, he'd forgotten about it, and meant to bring it down later in the evening, but it had slipped his mind again.

His breathing grows rapid and fearful, and he throws the covers back, sitting up fast. She looks over at him, startled, and when their eyes meet, there's nothing to say.

She looks away first.

"I'm sorry," she tells the kitchen sink.

"When...*how*?" he asks, terror squeezing at his heart.

"They busted me out three years ago, just in time for the big old Sunnydale showdown. Been living in LA since then."

"And...?" It's all like some paralyzing nightmare, where the most insane things make sense. He's sitting here, jeans and boxers still around his ankles, having a rational conversation with the woman who's about to kidnap his son.

"We got the tip last week. Your neighbor kid, the weird one who's always hanging out with all the little kids? Milagorth demon, actually."

"Zachary." It's like the end of a mystery novel, where all the disparate threads come together, pointing the finger in one direction only. He'd like to talk to the author.

"*Angel*," he says, the realization hitting him. Angel's known for two weeks. And he's still alive.

"Yeah," she says softly. "Angel knows. He's the one who found out."

He's silent for a moment, the question he needs to ask stuck in his throat.

"And ... does he -- forgive me?" he manages at last.

She sighs, stands up, and comes to sit at the edge of the bed. He pulls the blankets up again, covering his nakedness, leaning away from her.

"Wes," she says, her eyes intense and sorrowful. "This *is Angel's forgiveness. Couple years ago, he found out where you were, he woulda hauled ass up here and busted yours to kingdom come. Instead he sends me. Granted, I may not be full of tender mercy, but at least I ain't strapping you to the kitchen chair again. You gotta give him credit. This is as far as he can come."

"And you're taking Stephen back." It's unbelievable to say, to think.

"Yeah."

"Whether or not I want you to."

"Pretty much, yeah."

"And if I tell you that I've spent the last five years binding Stephen with spells, so that anyone who attempts to take him against my wishes will meet a most painful and prolonged death?"

"I'd say you better start working on lifting those spells, or changing your wishes, because you don't get a choice here."

He folds his arms. "It's not as simple as that."

She sighs again.

"Wes, I'm *sorry*. I'm so goddamn sorry. I didn't think -- it wasn't going to be like this. I was going to come up here, you'd still be pissed off and scared of me, and I'd bulldoze my way in, no problem. I didn't think...I didn't think there'd be anything to talk about."

"Taking my son was just an easy job to you," he says, the words bitter. "I see."

"*Wes*," she says, frowning. "He's *not your son*."

"And the prophecy?" he asks, ignoring her.

"It's bullshit," she answers. "That demon guy just faked it a billion centuries ago to screw Angel over. It's all a lie."

That does it. It's unthinkable that she's going to take Stephen with her, unthinkable that they've slept together, but knowing it has all been for nothing...*nothing*...is enough to break him.

"Wes, I'm so sorry for everything," she goes on, without noticing his frozen stare. "It's just that, when it comes down to a choice between you and Angel, I gotta go with the big guy. After Sunnydale did the big sucking crater thing, he took me in, took care of me. My head was fucked up for a long time, and he helped get me thinking straight. I owe him this."

"Lies," he whispers.

"What?" she asks sharply, ready to get pissed, but he isn't listening.

"All...lies," he says. "It's all gone. For his lies."

She understands, finally, and her face goes soft.

"There's something Angel wanted me to tell you," she says quietly. "I'm not sure I've got this straight, 'cause philosophy ain't exactly my thing. There's this sort of Buddhist...virtue, I think. Something like that. He says it's called ksanti. It means, like, patient endurance, or forgiving. You're supposed to wait for other people to act and explain themselves, and remember you don't always know everything about them."

"I suppose he means that *I* should have been like that," he says bitterly. She shakes her head.

"No," she answers. "He means that's what he's going to do. He's going to wait. He says it's taken him years, and at first he couldn't have done it. But now, he can hold back and keep an open mind about...everything you did."

He looks down, thinking. After a minute she gets up and begins to put on her other shoe. He uses the space of each breath to consider, to weigh. To hope.

When he hears her get up and gather her few things, he looks up again.

"I'll come," he says in a whisper.

She nods.

"I'm not promising anything," she answers. "I don't know what the hell he's going to do."

"I know," he says. "But what else can I do?"

*****

It's Stephen's first ride on a train. He plays with his deck of Amtrak cards and runs between seats, irritating the other passengers. Faith just laughs, her feet propped up on the opposite seat, and feeds him Fritos and Mountain Dew.

Wesley watches the city slip away, then the hills, then the flat plains, waiting to see the ocean. Waiting for forgiveness. Or waiting for grace.


End file.
